Monday, 23 July 2018

Unshackled is a thrilling ride of sexual awakening,
love, money and corruption…

Trying to escape the evil hold of her stepfather, Abigail becomes a
player in a wildly debauched world that has her body hitting a plethora of
sexual highs, while her heart clings to her new-found love and the desire to be
free. But can she break away and keep it all—the money, her freedom and the
girl?

Raising his hand, he took hold of the chain that hung from my
neck and with slow deliberation pulled at the metal, tugging at my nipples and
stretching out my breasts. The move sent sparks of painful delight rushing
through me and I cried out.

“Fuck me, Abi, did she corrupt you?” he said thickly.

I nodded and he yanked the chain again, his gaze flashing as
I cried out once more, my breasts thrusting forward.

“You’re so loud.” He pressed his index finger against my
parted lips. “We can’t have you alerting the household.”

Since the house was deserted save for Emma, it wasn’t a
problem, but then I figured he was probably acting out some sort of fantasy. I
could work with that...

“I can’t help it,” I said against his finger.

“Then I will have to help you,” he said darkly, his hand
replacing his finger to gag me as he yanked at the chain once more.

Pain shot through me, rapidly followed by the hedonistic heat
of pleasure and I moaned into his hand, tears pricking at the backs of my eyes
at the sharp intensity.

“You like that?” he asked, his hand still clamped tightly
over my mouth, my breaths coming in rasps as I struggled for air above his
palm. “I bet you do, you dirty little whore.”

And he did it again; his eyes intent on mine as they
glittered with unshed tears beneath him, my cries drowned out by the presence
of his hand.

“I’m going to taste every bit of your delicious, virginal
body,” he said, his voice hoarse as he struggled to control his mounting
desire. “And you’re not going to be able to do a thing about it.”

Releasing the chain, he dropped his mouth to my bound throat
to nip and suck at the flesh. I thrashed my head side to side, partly to do his
fantasy justice and partly to gain some air through his vice like grip. I felt
faint with the heady combination of rising passion and lack of oxygen. It was
an intoxicating mix.

“James!” A crack pierced the air and he leapt back with a
yelp. ”I told you to acquaint yourself with her pussy, not rape her!”

My eyes focused through the haze of desire to see Emma clad
head to toe in black PVC and brandishing a whip behind him. It was that which
had made contact with James, forcing him back, and now he was on his knees
before her.

“I’m
sorry, mistress, I lost control,” he said, an unexpected hint of fear in his
voice.

She
walked around him, her heeled black boots clipping the floor, the whip trailing
a path around him as she contemplated his bowing form. “Sorry isn’t good
enough, you shall be punished.”

“Yes,
mistress.”

I
watched in awe as this man, whom I had never seen behave anything less than
superior and in charge, was now humble and contrite.

“Firstly,
you can strip off. It’s only fair that I have you both in a similar state of
dress.”

“Yes,
mistress, may I stand?”

“You
may.”

Emma
stopped pacing and stood legs apart observing us. Even though I knew she would
be wearing the one piece, it didn’t lessen the impact of seeing her in it for
the first time. She looked fucking hot! Her hair pulled back in a severe
ponytail just as it had been outside Dr Tate’s office. Her lips, blood red,
were set in a hard line, her eyes glittering severely as she watched us, the
whip moving provocatively through her hands. My eyes dropped to the long, black
cord and I couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel. Would she use it on me?

“Ready,
mistress,” came James’ submissive voice as he came to stand naked between us,
his cock standing proud before him.

“I
want to see you on your knees before that pussy James.”

“Yes,
mistress.”

He
walked toward me and dropped to his knees, his mouth so close that I could feel
his breath tickling at the damp hairs of my pussy.

“Good
boy. I want you to make her cum with your mouth, James. You have ten minutes.
If she doesn’t you will be punished.”

James
took up the task with relish, he used his hands to separate my folds as his
mouth covered my clit and then he sucked, the sensation both shocking and
arousing beyond measure. He repeated the move, cleaning the area of my juices
and then his tongue was on the job, working me like the expert he clearly was.

I
didn’t think I was going to last five minutes, let alone ten. My eyes flicked
to Emma’s and I could see she was turned on, enjoying the sight of me losing
control. It then became a battle of wits. I wasn’t going to come; I wanted to
see him punished! Each time my body mounted to the peak, I forced my mind to
think on something else.

Finally,
Emma announced, “Ten minutes are up, James.”

He
groaned, his mouth still buried in my pussy, refusing to let up.

“James!”
she warned.

Obediently,
he stood and stepped back from me, his heated gaze fixed longingly on my lower
body.

From
behind him, Emma stroked the whip down his back and I watched avidly as she
dipped it between his legs to toy with his balls. And then she flicked it back
and he braced himself, just as the whip made contact with his backside.

He
cried out gruffly and his cock jumped, moisture forming at the tip in his
excitement. Emma repeated the move, and each time his erection stood proud, the
pre-cum dribbling down his shaft. I licked my lips at the sight and clenched my
pussy together in a desperate attempt to satisfy the powerful ache they had
stoked up within me.

“Now
turn around, James, I want you on your knees doing the same to me. Let’s see
where you were going wrong.”

Rachael Stewart adores conjuring up stories for the readers of Harlequin Mills &
Boon and Deep Desires Press, with tales varying from the heart-warmingly
romantic to the wildly erotic.

Despite a degree in Business Studies and spending many years in the corporate
world, the desire to become an author never waned and it's now her full-time
pleasure, a dream come true.

A Welsh lass at heart, she now lives in Yorkshire with her husband and three
children, and if she's not glued to her laptop, she's wrapped up in them or
enjoying the great outdoors seeking out inspiration.

*Terms and
Conditions –Worldwide
entries welcome. Please enter using the Rafflecopter box below. The
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third parties, with the exception of the winners’ information. This will passed
to the giveaway organiser and used only for fulfilment of the prize, after
which time I will delete the data. I am not responsible for despatch
or delivery of the prize.

Friday, 20 July 2018

Under the Hippocratic Oath, a doctor swears to remember that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon’s knife or the chemist’s drug.

Doctor Perry assures his elderly patients at the Rose Haven Retirement Home that he can offer warmth, sympathy, and understanding.

Doctor Perry is a
liar.

Hiding from a
traumatic past, Elijah Cone wants nothing to do with the other residents at the
Rose Haven, content to sit at his window waiting to die. He’s about to learn
that under Doctor Perry death is the easy option...

Myra has just buried her old cat, who she found dead
in the garden, severing the last link to her old life. The twin boys she and
her husband, Doctor Perry, are fostering, have just made her some afternoon
tea. The twins aren’t as angelic as their little blonde faces would lead you to
believe, they may have had something to do with old Tom’s death. And now they’ve
got their hands on some of Doctor Perry’s very special tonic… the tonic he uses
on his patients at the Rose Haven Retirement Home…

The boys walked into the lounge, huge
smiles illuminating their angelic faces, and Myra smiled at the mess of jam
spread across a slab of bread, which no doubt they’d helped themselves to,
judging by the smear on one boy’s cheek.

“We made you a coffee,” said James.

“And an afternoon snack,” said Jesse.

The coffee had splashed over the rim
of the mug forming a muddy puddle on the wooden tray but leaving enough left
in the mug to satisfy. The sight of the rustic jam sandwich made her stomach
rumble, she hadn’t realised how hungry she was.

“Thank you, boys,” Myra replied with
absolute honesty.

The boys giggled, their high pitched
falsetto voices more at home in a church choir than her suburban home.

“Can we go outside to play now please,
Myra?” asked James, his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Yes but don’t pick the flowers in the
garden,” she said. As they vanished from the room she followed with, “Because
some of them are poisonous,” but whether they heard, she couldn’t be sure.

Myra closed her hands around the
coffee mug. The aroma toyed with her senses and she took a sip. The boys had
added too much cream in an attempt to cool the coffee, making it more
lukewarm than hot, but at least they’d tried. The horror of what had happened
to Tom would never leave her, but sinking into the cushions of the couch, she
tried to let go of the afternoon’s stress. So many nights she’d sat here on her
own, a baby in her arms and a bottle in her hands, the soft scent of the baby
filling the space left vacant by a husband never at home. But for now the
space was hers. She took another sip and felt the caffeine kick in — the
twins had made it stronger than she liked and the difference was noticeable,
she felt her eyeballs popping open and her heartbeat increasing. She hadn’t
realised how much she’d needed a fix until now.

Myra tried closing her brown eyes but
when she did, she imagined images of cats padding paw-less through her
garden leaving smudges of blood on the grass, and fancied she could hear their
exposed bones clicking on the tiles of the kitchen floor like a blind man with
a cane tap, tap, tapping his way closer and closer. Myra swallowed the
fear threatening to paralyse her. Shock, she was going into shock, and she gulped
back the rest of the coffee, cold enough to knock it back in one long swallow.
And then it hit her. It felt like she’d been pinned underneath a giant
fan, the cyclonic air flattening her skin, forcing it into undulating waves
over her tired cheekbones. Her eyebrows moved under their own volition, her jaw
clenching. It felt as if hundreds of cats were stabbing at her with their
crudely amputated bones as they clawed their way into her lap for blood-soaked
cuddles. She tried screaming but couldn’t find her tongue, her pulsating skin
made that an impossible task.

The nightmarish vision of the cats
vanished, leaving only the excruciating pain from their imagined amputations.
Myra watched as her fingers shrank into themselves, leaving stumpy shadows of
her formerly long tapered digits. Her wedding rings slipped off onto the tray,
sending up a tiny splash as they landed on the polished wood — the gold circles
an empty promise of something never delivered.

Myra’s head bobbed forward as she sank
into the cushions. No, she wasn’t sinking into the cushions, she was shrinking,
the couch threatening to engulf her diminutive frame.

Through a deep reserve of inner
strength, she reached up to touch her face, her tiny fingers pressing into her
rippling skin. It was as if she’d plunged her fingers into the breathing gills
of a shark — her cheeks, jaw, teeth, bones, muscles, and tendons pulsated under
her touch. Her face had taken on a life of its own. Then, it was as if someone
had filled her head with Fourth of July crackers, and then lit the fuse. The
pain so excruciating that she found her voice and as her adult-sized cranium
shrank and compressed her brain at an inconsistent speed with the other changes
to her body, Myra’s screams shook the house.

* * *

The boys laughed as they climbed
higher and higher up the tree in the garden, a pair of garden clippers tucked
into the waistband of Jesse’s shorts. What fun they would have now! Two little
boys doing what little boys did.

~

For many years
Kirsten McKenzie worked in her family's antique store, where she went from
being allowed to sell the 50c postcards as a child, to selling $5,000 Worcester
vases and seventeenth century silverware, providing a unique insight into the
world of antiques which touches every aspect of her writing.

Her historical
fiction novels 'Fifteen Postcards' and it's sequel 'The Last Letter' have been
described as 'Time Travellers Wife meets Far Pavilions', and 'Antiques Roadshow
gone viral'. The third book in the series 'Telegram Home' will be released in
November 2018 by Accent Press.

Her bestselling
gothic horror novel 'Painted' was released in 2017, with her medical thriller
'Doctor Perry' following closely in April 2018.

She lives in New
Zealand with her husband, her daughters, an SPCA rescue cat and a kitten found
in the neighbour's shed, and can usually be found procrastinating on Twitter
under the handle @kiwimrsmac.

Thursday, 19 July 2018

Today, I’m taking part in the first anniversary blog blitz for
The Second Cup by Sarah Marie Graye. I asked Sarah Marie to share the most heart-rending
scene from her novel and she chose the scene where Abbie finds out she’s
pregnant.

Scroll down for the giveaway!!

The
Second Cup

by

Sarah
Marie Graye

Abbie had known there was something awry with her body the
way only a pregnant person can. And it wasn’t just the swollen ankles, swollen
abdomen and swollen breasts.

The tiredness and the backache that she’d put down to too
many long days and too many late nights had reached the heights where they
could no longer be ignored as symptoms of something bigger.

The pregnancy test was a mere formality: a wand to wave
magician-like at Ebbs in a “look what we’ve made” kind of way. Except that she
didn’t want to wave anything at Ebbs, except maybe a hand to shoo him away.

She had a little person growing inside of her and it was
half Ebbs and she didn’t know if she wanted it. And until she knew, she wasn’t
going to be able to tell him.

The secrets and the waiting and the decisions. They all
became nothing when the pain came. It didn’t just rip her in two: she’d felt
hung, drawn and quartered, her mind flitting back to history lessons at school,
to the horrors of the centuries gone by where people who betrayed the crown
were subject to a slow and humiliating torturous death.

Abbie felt like she was suffering a similar agonising fate,
but all she could think of was the little person inside of her, that they were
probably dying in her place.

Ebbs rushed her to A&E, knowing something was terribly
wrong, but having no idea of the cause. At that point Ebbs simply cared about
Abbie – and she realised she could have told him. But it’s too late for
confessions, so she must speak in whispers with the hospital staff.

A positive pregnancy test confirms what she tells them in
hushed tones. An ultrasound scan confirms the worst. Nothing in her uterus.

An explosion in her right fallopian tube. The worst type of
ectopic pregnancy. A medical emergency. Abbie rushed into theatre, crying for
herself, for her dead baby, for anything to make the pain go away. She cried
out – the sounds began to form the name “Paul” – and she quietens herself with
her fist in case Ebbs is near.

Later, after a straightforward laparoscopy, she was moved
to the recovery ward, her ruptured fallopian tube removed. Her baby removed.

The part of her and Ebbs that she didn’t know if she wanted
she now so desperately craved. She knew it was the hormones pulsating round her
body, but that knowledge didn’t stop her womb from aching for the life that
never was.

Later still, she was at home with Ebbs, the two of them
coming to terms with the pregnancy neither of them supposedly knew about. He
thinks it is easier that way: that they never got to know the idea of having a
baby before it was taken away.

She agreed, nodding, trying to hide the waves of grief for
the baby she’d known about for three weeks. And along with that grief, she
needed to come to terms with a diagnosis of pelvic inflammatory disease causing
damage to her fallopian tubes. The reason her baby didn’t make it to her womb.

The potential damage it may have caused to her other
fallopian tube. The problems she may face conceiving safely in the future.

She comforts herself with “at least” – the motto she has
come to live her life by – that at least they didn’t have a Band-Aid baby. So
Abbie knew she needed to be grateful alongside her grieving. To not be trapped
by a baby like her mother was.

And then later still, none of it matters. Shortness of
breath, followed by feeling faint, followed by yet more pain. Another hurried
journey to A&E. Another visit to theatre. A nasty infection. Another tube
removed.

Just isolated ovaries swimming around inside her, with no
connection to her womb. No way to make babies – Band-Aid or not.

And then later still, Abbie and Ebbs are no longer
together. The doctor checked Abbie’s scars and told her she had healed well.
She looked down at her abdomen and agreed. Physically she had healed very well.

The little cream lines near her belly button sat in the
natural folds of her skin and could easily be mistaken for chicken pox scars.
Yes. Physically she had healed very well.

And then later still, came an extra glass of wine to ease
the pain, to keep her company, an attempt to fill the hole. And then later still
came Dominic. But the hole was too big for him to fill too.

Would your life unravel if someone you knew committed
suicide? Theirs did.

Faye knows her
heart still belongs to her first love, Jack. She also knows he might have moved
on, but when she decides to track him down, nothing prepares her for the news
that he's taken his own life.

Faye is left wondering how to move forward - and whether or
not Jack's best friend Ethan will let her down again. And the news of Jack's
death ripples through the lives of her friends too.

Abbie finds
herself questioning her marriage, and wondering if she was right to leave her
first love behind. Poor Olivia is
juggling her job and her boyfriend and trying to deal with a death of her own.
And Jack's death has hit Beth the
hardest, even though she never knew him.

Giveaway – Win 3 x
Signed copies of The Second Cup by Sarah Marie Graye

(Open Internationally)

*Terms and Conditions –Worldwide entries welcome. Please enter using
the Rafflecopter box below. The winner will be selected at random via
Rafflecopter from all valid entries and will be notified by Twitter and/or
email. If no response is received within 7 days then I reserve the right to
select an alternative winner. Open to all entrants aged 18 or over. Any
personal data given as part of the competition entry is used for this purpose
only and will not be shared with third parties, with the exception of the
winners’ information. This will passed to the giveaway organiser and used only
for fulfilment of the prize, after which time I will delete the data. I
am not responsible for despatch or delivery of the prize.

Sarah Marie Graye was born in Manchester in 1975, to English
Catholic parents. To the outside world Sarah Marie’s childhood followed a
relatively typical Manchester upbringing, until aged nine, when she was
diagnosed with depression.

It’s a diagnosis that has stayed with Sarah Marie over three
decades, and something she believes has coloured every life decision, including
the one to write a novel.

Sarah Marie wrote The Second Cup as part of an MA
Creative Writing practice as research degree at London South Bank University –
where she was the vice-chancellor’s scholarship holder.

Sarah Marie was diagnosed with ADHD in November 2017 and
published an extended edition of The Second Cup in February 2018 that
included character interviews so she could diagnose one of her characters with the
same condition.

The word ‘research’ probably conjures up images of dusty library archives, meticulously sourced bibliographies, and maybe even microfiche (if you’re of a certain age). But research for The Colonel and the Bee was some of the most fun I’ve had in writing a book.

Once I had my idea: a destitute acrobat and a flower-obsessed adventurer explore the world of the early 19th Century in a fantastically large hot air balloon, I needed some help filling in the details. The story wouldn’t be beholden to reality at every turn, but I’ve always thought a measure of science makes even the most outlandish fantasy that much better. It was time to do some research.
While I admit going to the Wikipedia well more than I should, I quickly found many other amazing sources of information. Ballooning by C. H. Gibbs-Smith, an antiquated look at the world of hot air ballooning before 1946, provided some great aeronautical theory and history of ballooning. In an ill-visited corner of the upper floor of The Last Bookstore in Downtown Los Angeles (a great place to check out if you’re ever in LA), I discovered Forty Favorite Flowers by Beverly Nichols, a 1970s guide to curious flowers and how they fare in an English garden. Aside from having a great old book smell, Forty Favorite Flowers helped bring the Colonel’s extensive horticultural knowledge into focus. A dictionary of Victorian slang delivered gems like “enthuzimuzzy” (much ado about nothing) and “butter upon bacon” (excessive extravagance), but it was Lina Rivera, The Colonel and the Bee’s editor, who contributed what is probably my favorite bit of Victorian wordage: “chuckaboo” (friend).

By far the most thrilling and enjoyable bit of research was a trip in a real hot air balloon. I took note of all the sensations and emotions that came with the unique way of flying, and paid close attention to the charismatic British pilot’s manner of speaking (“The crown line’s in a bit of a state!” and “A woman can understand a compliment in any language, can’t they?”). The difficulty in controlling a craft as unwieldy as a hot air balloon was made clear with our unscheduled landing on a golf course. Luckily, the irate owner was placated with a handy bottle of champagne.

Imagination might do most of the leg work when it comes to fiction, but I hope all these real-world details help further color the world Beatrix and the Colonel explore, and make for a more engaging and exciting read.

Introducing...

The Colonel and the Bee

Beatrix, a spirited but abused acrobat in a traveling circus, seeks more than her prison-like employment offers. More than anything, she wants to know her place in the world of the halcyon 19th century, a time when the last dark corners of the map were being sketched out and travel still possessed a kind of magic.

One night in Switzerland, the mysterious Colonel James Bacchus attends Beatrix’s show. This larger-than-life English gentleman, reputed to have a voracious appetite for female conquests, is most notable for traveling the world in a four-story hot air balloon called The Ox.

Beatrix flees that night to join the Colonel, and the two of them make a narrow escape—Beatrix from her abusive ringleader, the Colonel from a freshly-made cuckold. Beatrix, feeling the Colonel may have the answers to her problems, pledges to help him catch the criminal he seeks in exchange for passage on his magnificent balloon.

The criminal seeks a precious figurine, The Blue Star Sphinx, but he’s not alone. The Sphinx’s immense value has also drawn the attention of the world’s most deadly treasure hunters. A murder in Antwerp begins a path of mystery that leads all the way to the most isolated island on Earth.

Patrick Canning spends as much time as possible turning coffee into collections of words that look like books, shorts, and screenplays. Most of his stories attempt to look for the meaning of life in an adventurous way, and often employ humor, important since the search usually doesn’t turn up much. He lives in Los Angeles with his dog, Hank.

An extract from The Colonel and the Bee

“Flying the Ox is much more akin to playing
an instrument than operating a machine. Approach the challenge less formally,
do so with confidence, and the craft’s perfect obedience will be your reward.”

I lost sight of the burner strap and by
accident pulled a vent on the main balloon. We began to rotate and descend with
great rapidity. The Colonel allowed me to find the correct cord on my own, and
I did so just in time as the Ox nearly scraped a rolling pasture hill,
startling a herd of brown Belgian cows enough to sour their milk.

Taking care to avoid the ripping line, I
continued to bring the Ox up, searching for the northwest wind. To my chagrin,
I sent us southeast, and it took a deft intervention from the Colonel to set us
right. Applying the correct pressure on the correct combination of cords in the
correct sequence did indeed give him the appearance of an accomplished maestro.

“Skill comes with practice, and northwest
can be elusive. Northeast can be downright tempestuous,” he said as if
recalling a talented snooker rival.

I readied another question, but the Colonel
anticipated me. He held up a gentle hand to stay the incoming query, motioned
with both hands downward, indicating I should relax, then gestured to the edge
of the Ox.

So worried I’d been about that morning’s
lesson, I’d hardly taken a moment to observe our environment. I joined the
Colonel at the railing, and became lightheaded with wonder. The full effect of
flight had been disguised by darkness the previous night, and now, in the maturing
light of dawn, I beheld a world transformed by perspective: rivers and
mountains were maps come to life, trees were seas of leaves that shimmered
emerald in the breeze, even birds flew at a height far below the Ox, moving
like schools of fish in currents of wind.

“Wonderful, isn’t it? From this height, we’re
permitted to see plainly the orchestrations of daily life, rank with crisscrossing
motives and the clutter of needless haste. Up here in the rarefied air we are
weightless in cool æther, unspoiled by the odour and noise of man’s desires far
below.”

We stood side by side, watching the scene
in silence, until something in the distance stole the Colonel’s gaze.

“There. Antwerp on the horizon. Drink your
leaf juice if you must.”

By now, all of the Manx were flying in a
loose halo about the Ox, gently displacing the Belgian mist we floated in as
they dove and twisted as birds in play.

“They have such charm and spirit,” I said.

“They detect my excitement. This visit
could prove fruitful in our search for the criminal. He’s been most elusive
thus far.”

“Do you know the murdered party?”

The Colonel’s face fell a note, but he
recovered quickly.

“I’m interested in the criminal.”

“To bring him to justice?” I gulped my tea.
“For this or a past transgression?”

“There is plenty to choose from. It is
enough for you to know I seek an audience with the man.”

“He has committed other crimes?”

“Certainly.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Most certainly.”

I finished my tea as the green vegetation
and black soil of tilled fields shifted to the red brick and grey stone of
buildings. Antwerp’s harbour introduced itself to the nose long before the
eyes.

The Colonel inhaled deeply.

“Have you been?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“A bastion of crime and seafood, how I
adore this city. I apologise as it’s unlikely we’ll have time for a proper
tour. Perhaps a return under less harried circumstances. Unfurl those ropes
there, won’t you?”

The spiderweb of roadways below passed ever
faster as we descended. I let drop a collection of heavy ropes over the side of
the Ox as the Colonel set her down in a rather regal park. Despite the posh
surroundings, there was an air of danger. Apparently, the Colonel felt it too.